


No Reservations

by yuma (yuma_writes)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Nightmares, Not Beta Read, Pack Feels, Pancakes, Post-Nogitsune, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuma_writes/pseuds/yuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, the bad guy is dead, they won (sort of), yet Stiles still has trouble sleeping. But there's his dad, his pack, and oh yeah, pancakes. Wait. What?</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Reservations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/gifts).



> A scene after the school showdown in "The Divine Move" and before the end montage. Assume there was a gap of time in-between those scenes because--oh heck, I needed a gap so I could fill it. LOL.
> 
> Warning: not beta-read

The ceiling looked like a gravestone.

Of course, it wasn't. The white paint on it—a product of asking for an advance on his next month's allowance to get Scott the best birthday gift _ever_ —peeled because he used too many coats. It was gray because he never painted it again. It was bare in some parts because Stiles bounced a rubber ball on it for the past several hours after counting the fingers in his hand lost its efficacy.

But now the ceiling bore the brunt of too many sleepless nights. Nevertheless, staring at it was better than gawking at his room papered with all the crimes of Beacon Hills plastered like wallpaper. He truly went Urban Decay on his room. 

Stiles screwed up his face. It helped push back the laugh/sob/hysterical screaming he could feel trying to claw out of his throat. He laid on his bed, a faded _Beacon Sheriff's Department_ t-shirt and sweatpants damp (he put them on because hope springs eternal), arms on his sides, on top of his blanket (because hope sucks) and stared at a ceiling that resembled the surface of his mother's tombstone.

Gray, rough, flat and blank where his mom's had at least read "Loving Wife and Beloved Mother." Stiles morbidly wondered what his tombstone would have said if the Nogistune decided to kamikaze instead and drag Stiles down with it when it disintegrated—it totally _dissolved_ Wicked-Witch-just-add-water, style.

_"Roommate Wanted: Vacancy in Brain available. Sanity a requirement. Must provide references."_

A thin sound, that may or may not have been a whimper, slipped out. Stiles turned to his side, his back to his room and jammed a pillow to his mouth. His dad was in the other room down the hall because he'd been taking day shifts. The compromise then was that Stiles would rest quietly in his room and Scott wouldn't carry him on his wolfy shoulders to the hospital because hello, he passed out even though it was completely justifiable because he barely stopped himself from committing some freaky samurai harakiri and damn it, thinking up divine moves was exhausting especially when he told his friends to trust him ( _trust_ him?) right after getting Allison—oh God, _Allison_.

Stiles pressed his filling eyes to his pillow. Briefly, he wondered if he could suffocate the thoughts out of his brain because his joints ached, his eyes burned and he wanted sleep, he wanted oblivion but he needed to check if the window was latched, if the front door was locked, if the sachet of mountain ash was still by his bed and shit, did he refill Dad's pouch by his bed? Maybe he should catch Chris Argent before he flies off next week to France. He should look up some Hunter-y terms in French for Isaac because he was barely passing Spanish and he might need to say, "Don't shoot, I'm a friendly wolf" in French—

A quiet knock at the door slowed his thoughts to a stuttering halt. Stiles blinked gritty eyes. He lifted his head; it was the least amount of effort.

"Yeah, Dad?" Stiles croaked.

Instead of his dad though, Scott's sheepish face poked through the cracked door.

"Sorry," Scott whispered. He stepped into the room. He shoved his hands into sweatpants. His shoulders slumped. "I couldn't sleep. Because..."

Stiles dropped his head. He threw his pillow at Scott, who, of course, caught it.

"Thanks." Scott sat down cross-legged on a spot of the carpet by Stiles's bed. He pounded the pillow to submission. Might be more effective if he growled at it. 

After a few minutes of listening to Scott tossing and turning, Stiles rolled onto his back.

"Do you need to walk around in a circle before you lie down?"

The borrowed pillow smacked him in the face.

"Just for that, I'm not giving it back."

And Stiles didn't have to.

Because with a growl, Scott stole the other pillow out from under Stiles's head. He burrowed his nose into it and took a deep whiff.

"Dude, why does it smell like rotten salted caramel? Gross."

"That's it. Hand it back over, buddy."

Stiles wanted to laugh. This was a laughing situation. Insert buddy-buddy banter here kind of moment, but he thought of the smudges under Scott's eyes, smudges that even werewolf healing powers couldn't quite erase. Stiles bit his lower lip and let Scott have his favorite pillow.

Then, Scott began to snore. Loudly. Holy shit, maybe Scott has banshee powers too.

Stiles peered over the edge of the bed to glower at Scott, who appeared to have no problem sleeping with Stiles' pillow hugged to his face.

With a sigh, Stiles laid back on his bed. He stared at the ceiling, counting the gaps between each snore like counting the space between thunder and lightning. He had watched Sesame Street with his mother every day. And his earliest memory was her warm against him, arm over his thin shoulders as he watched entranced as Bert patiently explained to Ernie how to count between thunder and lightning to know when the storm's passing.

Stiles listened to Scott's snores as they spread further apart. As he drifted deeper, he wondered why Scott hadn't come through his window.

It was a fleeting thought though, one that sank into the darkness with Stiles when he fell asleep.

 

Stiles woke up to the sensation of a Go pebble in his numbing hands, the taste of blood in his mouth and Scott's howl echoing in his ears. He jolted up, looked over, but the carpet was empty. Only his squashed pillow was evidence it wasn't a dream before.

However, there was another knock on the door.

Stiles knuckled his eyes. "Scott?"

Isaac poked his head through. 

Stiles blinked.

"Uh..."

Isaac's eyes flicked left and right; a habit Stiles suspected will never truly go away. He cleared his throat because Isaac was staring at the corner by his desk like he was going to attack it.

"Hey."

Isaac twitched. "Scott's dad is staying over for a week. On the couch." Isaac shrugged. "I don't think he likes me."

Stiles was pretty sure it was mutual. He jerked his head to the carpet. 

Isaac, to Stiles's amusement, did make a little circle before lying down. Stiles' smile faded though, when Isaac curled up on his side, wrapped around his pillow, like he was hiding under a mattress or curled up inside a freezer.

Stiles rolled onto his back; he stared at his ceiling again. His blank ceiling that sorely needed a good spackle. Maybe he'll drive to Lowes tomorrow, get one of those scrapper things, no wait, he'll need primer too, wipe the slate clean sort of speak and—

"I miss her."

Stiles held his breath. Isaac sucked in his; it sounded like he didn't mean to say anything at all. 

"Did Scott..." Stiles closed his eyes briefly. "Did he ever tell you about the time Allison laughed so hard, she snorted up Mountain Dew?"

" _What?_ " Isaac sounded both horrified and fascinated at the same time. 

Stiles nodded even though Isaac couldn't see it. "She and Scott snuck out to see a movie, and they chose this French comedy without subtitles, so she started laughing, and Scott didn't know why..."

Haltingly, Stiles described what Scott had told him. About the pissed off couple in the row in front of them, about Scott thinking Allison was choking, about Allison laughing so hard, she started hiccupping which really didn't help having just had soda up her nose.

Isaac listened, asked a few questions, snickered at some parts and soon, Stiles was also telling him about the time Scott (sorry, buddy) staring longingly at Allison so intensely, he accidentally shoved a straw up his nose. 

Words garbled together as Stiles tried to think up the details he swore under oath never to tell. And somewhere after telling Isaac about Scott mistakenly tucking his shirt into his SpongeBob boxers when he ran late, and Allison rushing to meet Scott, forgetting to braid the other half of her hair, Stiles drifted back to sleep.

 

The desperate, holy crap, _really desperate need to pee_ sensation woke Stiles. He blinked blearily at the beam of sunlight trying to sear his eyeballs all the way from his window. But his sudden animosity to UV (A? B?) couldn't compete with his bladder. He rolled over, found the carpet empty, his pillow on the floor again and levered himself to his feet.

Swaying, throat dry and fuzzy like he swallowed a hairball (hairball, werewolf humor, ha), Stiles blinked at his room. He should pull all that stuff down. His place could use a good paint job. The idea of new paint filling the room with its acrid fumes actually sounded appealing. He could throw up the window, let the air rush in, take everything out like bad fumes and bad karma and—

Oh yeah. Oh my God, need to— _pee_.

Door wrenched open, Stiles took one step out his door—

And tripped over a body.

Stiles recoiled when he heard a sleepy snarl because yes, there be werewolves. Awesome. 

"Ethan?" Stiles blurt when the teenager unwound from his spot in front of his door. "What are you—how co—" Stiles stopped. He held up a hand.

"Hold that thought. Bathroom."

"Take a shower too," Ethan shouted to the bathroom door. "You stink!"

 

Stiles did take a shower, not because Ethan told him to but because he took a whiff of himself and discovered he was now a naturally producing coyote repellant, because _yikes_. 

The water coming down on his head felt almost baptizing, like it was rinsing the aches and chills off his skin. They had burrowed underneath his skin since the showdown in the school. He flexed his hands, stared fascinated as water sluiced between the webbing, down his arms. He could feel it washing, pulling free something from his skin and bones, cleaning off a taint he couldn't shake off since he sacrificed himself to the Nemeton.

Stiles felt lightheaded as he changed. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Ethan was gone but he could hear voices downstairs.

Werewolves. His dad. Downstairs. Oh God.

Wincing, because, you know, _werewolves_ , Stiles scrambled downstairs. He peered into the kitchen and froze.

"Morning, son," his dad mumbled around a forkful of pancakes, pancakes _Derek Hale_ was apparently flipping in the kitchen and sliding them onto Scott's waiting plate.

_Speaking of flipping..._

"Uh." Stiles sat down. Actually, Isaac pushed him down onto a chair, Ethan wordlessly nodded because he was busy wolfing down ( _wolfing_ , ha) a stack of pancakes of his own.

His dad, seeming unperturbed that he was chowing down pancakes _Derek Hale_ made, smiled up at him. 

"Glad you can finally join us, kid."

"Finally?" Stiles surreptitiously counted his fingers. When they added up, he debated counting his toes too.

"You've been asleep for seventeen hours," Scott said as he slid into the seat next to him. He bumped shoulders with him.

" _What?_ "

At Stiles's wide-eyed look, his dad nodded. He took his time wiping his mouth with his napkin. "They've been taking turns staying close by. You seemed to sleep better for it. Derek here figured we should get you up for food though."

Seventeen hours. Huh. Explained his urgent bladder needs and morning breath. Wait...

"You're making _pancakes_?" Stiles gaped at the stiff back. Derek still wore his leather jacket. Thank God. If he wore the green and yellow plaid apron hanging on the pantry door, Stiles was going to have an aneurysm. 

"And bacon," Scott offered before he crunched loudly on a strip.

Isaac slid a fluffy stack of yellow cakes onto his plate. There was a bite on one though, because Isaac being nice apparently has its limits.

Stiles stared at Derek's back as he reached for the package of cholesterol and clogged arteries on the counter.

"That better be turkey bacon," Stiles grumbled.

Derek's hand retracted.

"Anyway," his dad said loudly to distract Stiles from the fact he'd just popped a crispy ribbon of suspiciously not-turkey bacon into his mouth. "Make sure you leave a plate for Lydia and Chris Argent later." 

Stiles stared. Lydia he could sort of explain, guess, okay, maybe not, but wait, what?

"Chris Argent was going to show me some kind of special bullet," his dad explained.

Back still to them all, Derek twitched.

"G-great," Stiles stammered because pancakes and bullets didn't quite compute. "Look at this. Wow. Great. Here we are, one big happy group of werewolves, hunters and police. All united against the forces of evil. Namely me."

Everyone froze. Isaac's fork stopped midway to his mouth. Maple syrup dripped onto the table. 

"Stiles." Scott sounded pained, like a very long blade was pushed and twisted into him. "That's not why..."

"Son." Oh God, his dad hadn't looked like that since he stood in Eichon House watching the nurse lead Stiles away.

The awkward moment shattered when Derek came over, sat down in an empty chair and began cutting his pancakes. He ignored everyone and began to eat.

Stiles lowered his eyes to his food.

"Well?" Derek said archly. "Are you going to eat that or not?"

The lump in his throat threatened to block any food he tried. Stiles blinked.

"Hurry up and eat and get back upstairs to sleep." Derek didn't wait for a response as he poured maple syrup over his modest stack. When did they get a bottle of real syrup?

"That's it?" Stiles exclaimed, his voice cracking.

Derek stabbed a fork into his mound of bacon dripping with syrup and put them on Stiles' plate.

Stiles shoved the plate away from him. The lump in his throat grew.

"What the hell are you all doing here?"

"Eating pancakes." Isaac rolled his eyes. Then tried to steal bacon off Ethan's plate. Ethan growled and pulled his plate closer to him.

"We just..." Scott shrugged. "None of us could sleep so we thought we might as well here." He grinned. "And Derek makes really good pancakes."

"Lydia wanted to come by, but a teenage girl in a house of teenage boys?" Stiles' dad shook his head. 

"Peter wanted to come by, too," Scott added.

Derek looked over his food at Stiles, grunted and went back to his food. Others appeared fascinated with their own plates because _ye-eah,_ Peter Hale.

"We just all..." Scott glanced around. He gave Stiles a crooked grin. "We couldn't sleep."

"I only wanted pancakes," Isaac announced. No one was listening although his dad transferred two fluffy disks off the center plate. 

Stiles' jaw worked as he stared hard into his food.

Scott stooped down his head to peer up at him.

"We just thought we'd sleep better around with the pack," Scott said softly. 

His dad slipped his hands over Stiles' shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

Something uncoiled in his chest. Stiles sniffed loudly. The hands on his shoulders gave another squeeze. Isaac burped.

"Will you eat your pancakes?" Derek growled.

Stiles rubbed a finger under his nose. 

"I can't," he rasped.

The room stilled around him.

Stiles smiled down at his food with burning eyes.

"Someone took a bite out of these." Stiles laughed, or maybe choked. "Werewolf cooties."

Three napkins flew his way. As Stiles wiped his eyes, his dad swapped out his plate for a fresh new set.

And somehow, that felt appropriate.

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the birthday ficlets I wrote for Brate. The prompts for this ficlet were "united" and "vacancy".


End file.
